


In the morning, I'm making waffles

by Nemeris (Eris18)



Series: apparently I'm using Shrek quotes as titles now send help [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: But we all knew that, Except he took a very very wrong turn, Geralt is essentially Mr Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, Jaskier is a dramatic feral little bitch, Love Languages, M/M, and a bit schmaltzy?, anyway i'm sorry, honestly this fic is pretty simple, well as schmaltzy as Geralt ever gets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23098732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eris18/pseuds/Nemeris
Summary: As apologies went, Jaskier decided, this was an excellent beginning to one.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: apparently I'm using Shrek quotes as titles now send help [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660243
Comments: 11
Kudos: 304





	In the morning, I'm making waffles

They don’t talk about the mountain.

Well, _Jaskier_ doesn’t talk about the mountain. Geralt just...doesn’t talk. Yennefer attempted exactly once to ask Jaskier what happened, and soon found herself with a surprisingly close call to a lute-based concussion. 

She thought about cursing him somehow, but decided against it as she considered that being Jaskier was probably curse enough.

That’s not to say that apologies never happened. What Geralt lacked in desire to have actual conversations with people, he could make up for it by having an enhanced ability to read their moods. Jaskier’s abilities lay, as one would expect, in displaying his emotions for all to see.

* * *

Two days after Jaskier cursed and sucked on a bleeding thumb when one of his lute strings snapped, he found the instrument fully repaired after they entered the next town. The true value of said gift came later that night as Jaskier played for the waiting crowd; he found his fingers plucking the strings easier than before, felt fewer blisters forming. Even that one particular, overplayed song came easier than it had before. As Jaskier took a “water break” (as in, ale. This was a tavern, after all), he inspected the strings. They were noticeably better quality than his last set, and worth far more coin. Geralt must have specifically requested these.

Jaskier didn’t quite know what to make of the mental image he had involving Geralt discussing the quality of lute strings with whatever craftsperson, but the thought caused something small - but warm - to flare within him.

As Jaskier entered their shared room, having finished his performance, he sat on Geralt’s bed, gently brushed his fingers against the witcher’s shoulder, and gave a small smile. Geralt’s response - a single nod - was welcome enough.

As apologies went, Jaskier decided, this was an excellent beginning to one.

* * *

Rain. Jaskier _hated_ the rain. He _despised_ it. It didn’t help that Geralt seemed to find Jaskier’s current state - sodden, hair curling up as it got impossibly wet, shivering, and exhausted - extremely amusing. They had been travelling through this damned weather for _three days_ and neither it, nor Geralt, were showing any signs of stopping soon. Jaskier had given up asking halfway through day one, thanks to Geralt’s usual level of helpfulness in the matter. Instead, he pulled his travelling cloak around himself and marched on.

The final straw came as Jaskier tripped over an unseen rock in the road and, unable to stop himself thanks to his hands holding his cloak, fell face forward into the mud. At this point, he gave up, lying there and contemplating becoming one with the dirt and the stones. And then he was uprighted, quite against his own will. It seemed that either Geralt had finally found it in him to be somewhat helpful, or he was about to be eaten by some beast that couldn’t believe its luck. However, no pain or crunched bones occurred, and Jaskier found himself standing upright.

Jaskier tried to clear his eyes of mud with his cloak but, given that this was also covered in mud, merely resulted in more mud blurring his vision. He felt something wipe across his face, and then he could see Geralt holding a muddy piece of scrap cloth.

“...There’s a village a half hour down this road,” Geralt said after what seemed to be an unnecessarily long silence. “We’ll rest there for the night.”

Jaskier, uncharacteristically, did not reply. He sighed heavily, nodded and took one step forward; hearing a squelch, he then felt water seeping into his stocking. As much as he didn’t need visual confirmation, he looked down; his left boot had torn at the seam. Of course it had; these shoes were not made for walking such distances, or in such weather. However, with no immediate solution, Jaskier had no choice but to walk on, feeling the water seep further up his stocking and adding to his already terrible mood.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the sight but, obviously, said nothing; this time, it was more out of choice than desire. An annoyed Jaskier was a mean and petty Jaskier, and Jaskier had been annoyed since the rain started. Add three days, a fall into the mud, and a broken boot to that, and Geralt was likely to end up with a bloody nose and another visit for lute repairs.

Hopping back up onto Roach, he commanded her on and led the way to the village, using the time to think.

Jaskier felt slightly closer to an approximation of himself after he had a bath, put on a shirt, and tamed his hair into something resembling an acceptable style. He wasn’t up for performing, but thankfully Geralt’s last few hunts had been successful enough that he could afford a night off. As such, Jaskier flopped onto his bed in a suitably dramatic fashion and gave himself a few minutes of lying on something comfortable.

A few minutes passed before he sat up, finally deciding to inspect his clothes to see if they were worth saving. The cloak, doublet, and trousers merely needed washing; thankfully he had decided on his wool ensemble rather than silk. However, the stockings would need to be thrown away, and obviously his boots...

Jaskier couldn’t see his boots. Where were his boots?! Had someone snuck into the room and _stolen_ them?! Well that was just _great_! On top of _everything else_ , now he had to somehow acquire new footwear.

“...Fuck this,” Jaskier groaned to the empty room, rubbing a hand down his face.

He took the rest of his clothes to find the innkeeper and get them cleaned, stormed back to his room, and flopped on the bed. Bundling himself up in the blankets, he decided that tomorrow, he could deal with footwear. Right now, the entire situation could just go fuck itself. Despite his mood, sleep thankfully came quickly.

He didn’t see or hear Geralt returning from the cobbler, a new pair of sturdy-yet-stylish boots under one arm. He also didn’t see Geralt place said boots next to the bed, along with a pair of finely stitched, soft woollen stockings.

He saw them when he woke up the next morning, bad mood still lingering. However, that warm feeling from before came back to him; he looked over to Geralt, who was still sleeping.

Jaskier dressed quietly, admiring his new footwear. The boots were hardier than his last pair, but still made well. There was a touch of embroidery around each seam, as if someone had requested that the boots look good as well as be able to last for long stretches of walking.

When Jaskier looked over to Geralt once more, the witcher’s eyes were open and watching him. Jaskier grinned, allowing himself to preen only internally. Based on the suppressed smile Geralt gave him, the bard knew he had failed to hide his feelings. Right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

* * *

Geralt knew that Jaskier hadn’t written a single line for three days. Usually, he wouldn’t notice, but Jaskier seemed...twitchier than usual. His hands wouldn’t stop moving, which was a normal sign of an emerging song, but the bard had made no move to write anything down.

When Geralt had to start picking up loose pieces of parchment from around wherever they were staying and placing them within the cover of Jaskier’s current notebook, his suspicions were confirmed. The pages were all full, and the scraps contained random, seemingly unconnected lines which must have been nearly impossible for the bard to interpret into music.

“Hmm,” he said, the sound dulling quickly in the room. This was important to Jaskier, and yet he hadn’t asked to get a new one. Geralt wasn’t 100% sure that this wasn’t a test, but either way he refused to fall short of expectations.

He placed the book, paper scraps and all, carefully onto the bed, before heading out into the town. There weren’t many shops here, the settlement itself being quite small, but there should be at least one place that had what Geralt needed. However, it wasn’t until he had exhausted the main streets and had started searching through the smaller back alleys until he found the desired shop; by this point he was getting hungry, but such things could be put off until after he had finished this particular hunt.

“I need a book,” he grunted. 

The shopkeeper, unsurprisingly, jumped at the experience of the witcher storming in and growling demands.

“Y...yes, of course,” they said. “Was there a particular book? A novel? History, perhaps? Maybe some poe..try...?”

“ _No_ ,” Geralt growled, frustrated, “for writing.”

“Oh!” the shopkeeper nodded. “I see, a notebook. Very well, we have some here, if you’d like to look at them?”

Geralt let a puff of air out of his nose, before looking at the selection in front of him. Lute strings had been easy, he just let the craftsperson deal with it. Boots had been easy, he’d just had to specify that they needed to look... _nice_. This? This was akin to torture, because he actually had force himself to think like Jaskier.

He pictured Jaskier’s current notebook, full of his flowery words and purple prose. That told him the size, at least, but would Jaskier want one of the same colour? This shop didn’t have any that were exactly the same blue, and Geralt knew that Jaskier would definitely care about colours... _matching_ or something ridiculous like that.

And then, one particular book caught his eye. It was dark green (forest? Geralt didn’t really put stock in naming colours beyond the basics), leather-bound, with gold filigree around the border. It was practical, yet...Jaskier would like this. Geralt picked the book up and handed it over.

“Excellent choice, Ser Witcher,” the shopkeep said, smiling kindly. “And if I may? We do personalise such items, if you wish?”

Geralt considered this for a long moment before responding with a single nod.

“Three letters,” he said, “on the front. And you tell no one about this.”

“Of course, ser,” the shopkeeper replied. Geralt knew that they were already planning what they were going to say to their family, but he hoped they’d wait until he’d had the chance to _give_ the damned thing to Jaskier, at least..

The entire process took far longer than Geralt would have liked but, eventually, he was on his way back to the inn, prize in hand. Jaskier was not, as expected, performing in the tavern; he was in their room, scribbling away on yet another tiny scrap of paper. Geralt unceremoniously dropped the new book onto Jaskier’s lap before turning around and very deliberately checking his armour.

He heard a small gasp of surprise from the bed, followed by the fluttering of pages being thumbed through; this was followed by gentle scribbling. Geralt dared a glance over his shoulder and saw Jaskier frantically copying some of his poetry from a scrap into his new notebook, his tongue poking out slightly to one side of his mouth in concentration as he wrote.

It wasn’t until Jaskier had gone through every single piece of loose paper and ensured that they were more solidly recorded that the bard looked up at Geralt.

“...Thank you,” Jaskier said, his voice soft.

Geralt nodded once, and that was that.

* * *

It was odd for Geralt to have this particular problem - it was one more suited to the bard - but he couldn’t get this one damned song out of his head. No, not _that_ one - that was constantly stuck in _everyone’s_ minds. 

This was a more recent composition of Jaskier’s, one that Geralt had been hearing snippets of over the past few days. A phrase here, a few notes there...they were proving hard to forget; not to the point of distraction, of course. Geralt would never let that happen. But as they were travelling between towns, Geralt had caught himself on more than a few occasions wanting to...hum.

He didn’t like that.

It didn’t help that Jaskier was more enthusiastic about this song than he had been with certain others. It seemed like he was constantly plucking at his lute, humming along to the chords, slowing the two of them down by stopping to scribble something in that new notebook of his. Geralt was half-tempted to just throw the bard over the back of Roach to keep pace; he didn’t, though, as he knew well enough how Roach would react to that idea.

It had been three days of constant background music and mumbling, slow pacing and having to spend more nights than planned making camp rather than in a proper bed; Geralt wasn’t happy. Jaskier hadn’t seemed to notice, as deep as he was into “the process” (the bard’s words, not Geralt’s). However, they finally reached a town in need of a night’s entertainment in exchange for a room; Geralt ordered a bath whilst Jaskier stayed downstairs to, essentially, sing for their supper. The witcher did, however, manage to make it down to hear the end of Jaskier’s performance; he sat at the back of the tavern, a mug of ale in front of him. The bard had played the usual favourites, ending with that one damned tune; Geralt steeled himself as a few patrons took the song literally, easily dodging any coins thrown his way and sighing.

Jaskier came over and started gathering up the money, smiling to himself and humming the new tune as he did so; the last coin he picked up was next to Geralt’s boot, so when he stood up, they were almost nose-to-nose.

“Oh!” Jaskier stepped back, as if he had momentarily forgotten what space was. “My apologies. That was a bit...anyway. Good performance, right?”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, taking a swig of his drink. He nearly spat it out when he found that a coin had, in fact, managed to land in his tankard. He sighed, fishing it out and pushing the stein to one side. “I guess this is yours,” he said, holding the coin out in his open palm.

“No!” Jaskier replied, handing over the pouch with the rest of the takings. “They tossed it at _you_ , after all!”

“Hmm.” Geralt took the bag, placing the slightly wet coin inside. “Bath’s upstairs if you want it. We can get clean water.”

“Ah, good,” Jaskier said, smiling. “So glad you could deign to get me _clean_ water, so that I wouldn’t have to sit in ‘witcher soup’.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and started walking away, waiting until he had reached an empty corridor to let himself smile.

Once they were settled in for the night, Geralt lying in his bed and staring up at the ceiling, Jaskier suddenly sat up and reached for his lute. The bard did pause, looking at Geralt out of the side of his vision; it was late, after all. But they were staying for a couple of nights here, Geralt had rare time to rest, and so was feeling magnanimous; he didn’t react, which Jaskier thankfully took as permission.

Soon enough, that new tune was filling the quiet space of their room, but this time Jaskier was singing along clearly. The lyrics were fairly tongue-in-cheek, but still...Geralt recognised the subject.

Oh. _Oh_.

Geralt sat up and looked at Jaskier; the bard carried on, obviously aware but also in the midst of performing.

As the last few notes faded into the night, Jaskier put his lute to one side and looked up at Geralt.

“You bought me new lute strings,” he said, “and boots, and...the notebook.”

“You only just noticed,” Geralt said.

“No, you damned _bas-_ -” Jaskier sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just...wanted to say...that I understand. And I accept...your apology.”

Geralt nodded, but said nothing more.

“...Is that it?” Jaskier asked, his hands flailing slightly.

“Not much more to say,” Geralt shrugged. “I’m more about actions than words.”

Jaskier squinted his eyes at the witcher, leaning slightly closer.

“I’m not stupid, Geralt,” he said, after a short pause. “You made sure I got the _best_ things. The lute strings, the boots, the...the..” he groaned, frustrated, “the damned notebook had my _initials_ engraved on the front! It matches my favourite outfit! That’s more than an apology, that’s a _confession_.”

Geralt, as ever, said nothing.

“So I figured,” Jaskier carried on, hardly noticing, “that one confession deserved another. So...”

“...the song,” Geralt said.

For once in his life, Jaskier didn’t have anything to say. He did, however, lean even closer so that, for the second time that evening, he was nose-to-nose with Geralt.

“So,” he began, his voice a whisper, “what comes next?”

Geralt allowed himself to smile.


End file.
